


A Wiki Definition

by LateralFlexor



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Roughhousing, Sexual Coercion, Unusual Punishment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-02-02 07:56:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12722646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LateralFlexor/pseuds/LateralFlexor
Summary: Wheeljack always causes one problem after another, but with the right sort of complicated mind-meddling aimed at his twisted desires, perhaps he can be encouraged to behave.





	A Wiki Definition

               “Wheeljack.”

               “What can I do for ya, _boss_?”

_That_ was not a look he was unaccustomed to. “I would prefer to speak with you alone, on a matter of-”  
                “‘Great importance’ I bet, eh?” the sportscar said, scrubbing flaking coolant from his hands. The icy look above wasn’t deterring the sass, of that he’d be certain.

               Optimus was rigid as a fresh rust stick- much unlike the one crusting in his own subspace. The wrecker swooped a digit during his scrubbing with the rag. Starting to get itchy in there.

                “Alright, alright.” Wheeljack stood, rag thrown like his own caution to the wind. “Take me wherever you want, Prime. I got time.”

                Prime took a broad step around the white mech before indicating with his helm the mech continue in front. Undisturbed by the change of formation, Wheeljack resumed to what he could only imagine would be the back rooms. One of them at least. Three shanix it was just going to be a berthroom. Allspark knew none of them could fit anywhere else.

                The wrecker made his way lackadaisically to the primary corridor, Ratchet all the way balling his tainted rag which had _finally_ made its way back, and grumbling.

\--

                Wheeljack passed Prime ages ago, he thought. Even when Magnus made him perform the walk of shame he gave more direction than this. Not like he couldn’t think on his own, but three more shanix said Optimus was about to tell him why he thought otherwise.

                Prime called open the door with a prehistoric command interface. Wheeljack’s sly remark instead manifested as a slag-eating facial expression, the likes of which Optimus now seemed slightly less immune. “Enter, please,” he said, and to his credit it was brimming with all kinds of control.

                Wheeljack had no problem doing so and blatantly made himself at home. Prime meanwhile continued quietly the song and dance of having to close the antiquated door. Aft on the foot of the berth, the sportscar crossed a pede over the other, propped himself up on green-flecked servos. “S’pose I’m here because you found another way to call me stu-”

                A sturdy, thin digit tip pressed insistently to the warrior’s chipped lipplate. Prime’s earnest seriousness came through clear. “You will not speak until I am finished. Is that understood?”

                Prime didn’t trust the silence until he opted to trust the wrecker, finger moving from its demeaning location. “Like barite,” Wheeljack mumbled, bite lost to his confusion.

                The Autobot leader had been hunched, spine now returning to its favored position. Wheeljack speculated it had something to do with the stick up his aft. Hell, maybe he’d even ask, but if that meant another finger to his mouth, he wasn’t sure he’d have such a clever answer to counter.

                Prime began banally at first, the same conventional prose and everything. “Your recent behavior has become a cause for concern. You continue to disobey both my and Ratchet’s commands and endanger the well-being of others, yet you learn nothing.”

                “Sounds like my personal definition, Prime. Got anything new?”

                A swift yet heavy hook had his optical feedback spiking. His left audio receiver was on the fritz, puffing blobs of static even as he heard the rumbling voice.

                “I would like to believe that violence is a last resort when it comes to discipline, however I find Ultra Magnus, and your fellow wreckers, disagree.”

                Wheeljack was dumbfounded as Prime reset his knuckles, delicately rubbing a few back into place. His jaw clicked on the edge of its track, “I-… did you just…?”

                Optimus’ field was nonexistent, a far cry from its welcoming presence it normally exhibited. There was an absence of forgiving warmth, and of open remorse. Optimus was just being… aggressive. Not that a wrecker like himself had ever not encountered akin behavior. “As I said, I am open to alternative methods when it comes to rearing an unruly member of the team. Your actions may result in unneeded offlinement, something we are on no shortage of in this war.” Prime stared evenly into the smaller mech’s collar armor. “Now may we continue this conversation?”

                Seems he still wasn’t used to bestowing this kind of treatment. No wonder Bulkhead had ended up soft as gold. “That’s… fine.”

                “You exercised extremely poor judgment by allowing the children to accompany you on a raid.”

                Wheeljack wasn’t as bored as he usually would be at the start of his list of errors. Prime’s dark tone was enough to keep him entertained. ‘On edge’ was more like it.

                “I have been forgiving in favor of you learning from your mistakes, but it appears that you are unable to do so as you continue to make these errors in judgment. Possessing a sense of adventure is one thing,” Optimus finally granted him more optical contact. Most likely, Wheeljack thought, because that’s what it was really about all along. The show of dominance wasn’t the reason for this little meeting: this was.

                The wrecker found it a bit much after the reality of what happened hit him. Like a youngling, he rubbed the edges of his peds together.

                Above him, Optimus Prime finished, “But seeking out chaos with the young Earthlings in tow is not under the same nature.”

                “I…”  
                Prime’s blue optics disconnected entirely from his frame at the peep from his underling. His optics were round- vulnerable blue. It didn’t match the character he was pretending to play. Wheeljack didn’t see that as much of a problem. He knew Prime couldn’t seal the deal.

                “I ain’t a team player, Prime. You know that, I don’t know why this is such a surprise.” Wheeljack’s voice was steady, something Optimus took to mean he too was affected, though that stood to possible be untrue.

                “That I know.”

                The wrecker resisted the urge to shift his frame around, instead settling for leaning back on his elbows. “So what’s the big deal? The kids enjoyed ‘emselves and everything turned out fine.” He displayed an ‘ok’ symbol with his servo.

                “That is not a likely outcome with each new scenario. I have asked you… politely not to do it.” Optimus moved his right foot, settling into a more ample stance.

                Wheeljack labeled that as enough of a retreat. If Prime was willing to forfeit this soon, he felt ready to push the envelope. Show Prime a thing or two about _really_ getting tough. He laughed briefly, “Sure did, boss, but they liked it. Pit, I liked it, and you know what?” The white bot crossed his pedes. “Think I may even do it again tomorrow.”

                Optimus’ optics narrowed but he remained well-mannered, and closed off. “If you continue to endanger members of my team, I must ask that even given our situation, that you no longer stay at this base.”

                “Sounds like yer kicking me out of your Autobot band. Tsk, Prime, I thought you’d be a lot nicer about it.”

                The fat pomposity of the wrecker was stirring his circuits. Optimus squinted a hair more, and said, “I have been.”

                Wheeljack wanted to squeal his wheels out of there, leave a lovely ‘thank you’ skidmark on the floor and listen to the grind of Ratchet’s gears as he’d get down to clean it. He certainly loved getting the Prime to recognize and filter out his actions. Made things sting a bit more on the other’s end but Primus, did that former desk-jockey need it. Wasn’t as bad as Magnus by a longshot, but you couldn’t be a leader and rescind slag like that.

                “Sure have,” he said, voice slicker than brake fluid. He wringed his servos, rolling his wrists as he shrugged and sat up. “But I guess my welcome’s all worn out. Though I…” he stood, feet a weaker pedstep than when Prime turned to face him, “Don’t think I’ll be headin’ out just yet. Not like it’s gonna bother you any. You’d let a squishling walk right on your windshield and call it friendship.”

                A wave of heat hit him from Optimus’ position. The two innocuous optics were harder than diamond, brimming to the top with restraint. Was kinda hot, if Wheeljack was to choose any time to be honest. He was playing things fast and rude, but he thought the internal complement canceled that out.

                “Kay. See ya. Good talk and-”

                A thick mitt pushed into his clavicle armor, holding him a few feet from the exit. The nanosecond he opened his trap again he was airborne.

                The slab of Prime’s berth wasn’t favorable to his lively entry. It hit his aft first, then his helm smacked back against it and he rebounded up into a sit-up position. “Damn.”

                A weight was upon him, silken and cumbersome like sludge. Once his optics rebooted, his servos came down from cradling his head. It was then, he realized he’d pushed some kind of button.

                Prime’s thighs were just micrometers over his waist and Wheeljack let his servos fall wherever they wished on them. Their silver reflected his trekking servos as they greedily swam in fluid circles over the leader’s intimate region. But he kept his distance from the panel. Didn’t feel like losing a servo.

                “Now this is more like it, Pr- ow.”

                Prime’s servo pressed his helm right into the berth. Any harder and there’d be an imprint of the side of his most insubordinate soldier’s helm. Wheeljack felt his neck cables twist angrily at the forced angle, but he continued to smirk, satisfied he’d reduced Prime to such a mess as to become the risqué chastiser. Magnus dropped swiftly down to second place.

                By a lot.

                “Wheeljack,” Prime said in the same battle-worn pitch he used to Megatron, “I will not ask you again. Comply with my methods, or leave the premises until I give you permission to return.”

                The smaller mech’s optics strained to the side of their sockets. With a meaningless grunt, Prime let up just enough to let the wrecker meet his gaze better. He appeared to deliberate, and for not one second longer than what was safe, Prime believed him. Then the sportscar spoke, “Nah.”

                Prime stared a straight line into the other’s optics and clasped a servo around the other’s intake, squeezing as much as he could consciously allow.

                Wheeljack felt a sting under his plating, more notably so in his groin. “St-ill nah,” the wrecker repeated.

                Prime’s pretty features grimaced as he closed his palm tighter. The feel of another Autobot’s lifelines constricting under his own strength made him nauseous. His optics were unwavering, locked into the other mech’s, but he was no longer searching for a means to back away from the situation. The intensity was charging him up, made his sparkrate increase as he treaded through unexplored territory. The top square of his thumb rolled around the wrecker’s secondary energon line.

                To Wheeljack, he felt it was pretty tender. Almost too tender.

                “Y-ou know, if you w-anted to tou-ch me so bad, sparring is a th-ing. ‘Ca-se you’re fe-elin’ too hot to f-unction.”

                Glaring with the same fire he had for the Decepticon commander, Prime lifted his subordinate’s frame off the berth. Extending to the tallest he could on his knees, he let Bulkhead’s friend hang there. The other playfully looked around. “Nice p-la-ce.”

                “My rules exist to keep the innocent out of harm’s way,” he said vacantly. The sportster knew he meant it and all, but did he sincerely think this would make him tame? Prime’s goody-two-peds lifestyle wasn’t for him and what little shambles of a lifestyle he had to call his own weren’t hellbent on killing the squishables. For someone in love with details, Prime didn’t seem keen on splitting retrorat hairs over this one.

                Legs dangling, the white mech licked over his pitted lipplate. Prime was getting better at this sort of thing. Optimus’ thumb let up and his optics were expectant, if not contradictorily patient.

                The sportscar felt his peds connect to metal and a small rush of energon to the helm. Mech was too easy to wear down. He sputtered a cough, harder than he really needed but one that nonetheless burned, “I ain’t no reckless wrecker, boss. You really think those kids who _decide_ to tag along’re gonna get pressed into the dirt?”

                Prime’s helm hung in his visage, servo lax for the moment. “Your lack of responsibility to others, regardless of their own at time thoughtless, is what I find less acceptable.”

                Then the wrecker truly sputtered, “Frag, Prime, what the Pit is wrong with you? If they wanna come, they know what they’re up against, how the Pit is that my problem? Not like anything’s gonna happen to them anyways while I’m-”

                “Preoccupied with demolitions?” Prime interjected with a tone too serious to be a real joke.

                He stopped himself from laughing outright, optics lidding until he felt Optimus could possible touch his near tangibly snark field. “Oh, you’re good. So,” his servos cross over his chassis, “Ya want me to take _workshop_ on improvin’ my negligence, Prime?”

                The other was quiet.

                “’Course, you could always do it yerself.”

                The air went thin at the insinuation, but Wheeljack felt right at home. Adopting Prime’s insecure sexuality, the wrecker stood up on the tips of his peds, swimming in self-satisfactory contumeliousness. Denta grazing over his bottom derma, Wheeljack searched Prime’s eyes, request husky, “Why don’t you show me what it’s like to be a part of your team?”

                He could see his presence reflect on Prime’s face, a muddy fuzz in what could be an immaculate face should Prime ever bother to take care of himself. He’d heard Ratchet bitch about that more than once, but Prime’s nicked frame was appealing that way- paint chips floating off after every punch, scathed fingers balled into tight fists, tall legs carrying him wherever he wanted.

                Wheeljack’s raunchy feint in his helm was working some sort of sorcery. Prime leaned closer, an inch at most, and the wrecker detected his field for the first time that afternoon: warm, caressing, regal. His helm approached, lips parting microscopically as the littler mech’s mouth screwed into a fulfilled smile. Under his triumphant breath, he murmured, “Knew you couldn’t resist me.”

                Prime had him in a grappling hold for all of one millisecond before the wrecker’s optics faced a new gray surface. Prime’s forearm had his upper back and neck roughly nailed down to the berth as it occurred to Wheeljack to writhe. Both of his hands were grinding together at the wrists under Prime’s available servo.

               Pressure increasing around the mock prisoner’s servos, Optimus’ engines grew louder and surprisingly steadier. “Obey the rules and regulations I have set out, or I will remove something important.”

               The vulnerable Cybertronian underneath threw his helm up and chortled, “Oh my God, you would not.”

               Limb straining, his wrist creaked as one wire snapped in the socket. “Indeed,” Optimus’ heady voice resounded in his audial, “I would.”

               The nasty twinge inside his spark made him question if this was fun anymore. Prime’s unseen weight behind him was tantalizing. As fun and screwy as raising the bar would be, Ratchet wouldn’t repair the hands right away. And… the pain wasn’t fun without more kink.

                Speaking out of the side of his mouth, tender neck cabling taut once more, Wheeljack said, “Gotta say, Prime, I don’t do well when prodded.”

               Without skipping a klik to consider a new tactic, Prime responded, “Should you retaliate I will be forced to use more bewildering means of coercing you to cooperate.”

               Ah, there’s the kink. Well, it would be if it were any other bot on Earth or Cybertron. Wheeljack squirmed, emphasizing his strength. “Got a new lecture planned?” he bit out. His shoulder, folded backwards as it was, started making an irritating grinding sound. With the shoddy repair he’d done last night it’d pop out any nanosecond. As rewarding it would be to guilt his interrogator into thinking it was his own doing, this evening didn’t have that kind of vibe anymore.

               Optimus’ voice was like Richttis 6 gravel had it been smoothed over with the planet’s thick pools of lilac slush. “Wheeljack.”

               “Mm,” he grunted contentedly, “You treat even Arcee like this? Whattabout the doc?”

               Optimus relinquished his excessive use of force. Unable to see, Wheeljack could only surmise the wisecrack would be his last for a while. Even if Prime only let up to get his aft up and out of the place, at least he could enjoy the march out, put on display the boss’ fine handiwork. Nothing a rotary buffer couldn’t take care of.

               But Optimus didn’t sit up. Didn’t let him go free at the final straw- the resonating sign that the wrecker _couldn’t_ behave under duress or otherwise. However, Bulkhead’s advice shouldn’t be put to no use. The blue bot twisted his captive’s neck, thumbing over his mouth.

               Sickened at the wishy-washy treatment, the warrior made to nip, only to be refused the action as Optimus engulfed his mouth with his own. Feverish, Wheeljack twitched out of confusion, not as a means to show discomfort. Prime’s mouth was warm and explorative, glossa testing the waters less than cautiously as he skimmed the wrecker’s denta. His underling eagerly pushed his helm forth into the pressure against him, lips moving to accommodate his boss. Panels flaring, Wheeljack unabashedly let his backwards lust galivant freely, charge radiating from every dented crevice. Prime’s fist ensnared his throat cabling once more, controlling the untamable wrecker. Prime scraped his denta across the other’s lower lip as he retreated, drawing a sliver of energon, the likes of which Wheeljack licked up with his now unoccupied glossa.

               As the wrecker sighed in absolution, engine rumbling in a low register, the commander held his faceplate close to his own, “Now, do we understand each other?”

               “Not gonna say no to treatment like this now am I?”

               He hummed in agreeance.

               “One more for the road, Prime?” His leader looked equally dissatisfied as before. “C’mon, ya gotta outdo Mags if ya wanna make an impression on a delinquent like me.”

               It would be a lie to suggest Wheeljack’s crooked smile warmed Prime’s cool stoicism, but in this instance he’d make an acceptation. Surrendering to good intentions, the lead Autobot nudged against his subordinate’s face, mouthing his lips sensually until he was met with congruent affection. Wheeljack’s hands kept to the berth, aged mouth seeking Prime’s like a missile as he mingled their glossa. Peeking at Prime’s modestly pristine face, optics shut like a youngling, gave Wheeljack the initiative he sought. If he could stay in line a week or two, who knew what could follow every shifty break in allegiance.

               Hopefully Prime’s bearings wouldn’t fall off by then.

                As the two parted, Prime slid from the berth, pushing some items misplaced by their tussle under the berth or to the side. Rotating his helm around to loosen the spastic cables. He rubbed his servo over them and sat up, eyeing his commander. “Thought I lost ya there for a klik, Prime.” His leader’s attention was loosely on him as he tidied up, surely planning to go at any time. He’d make him stay. “Frame’s a little banged up but no more’n usual.”

               “Bulkhead assured me that you could indeed,” he chose his words carefully, “ _Take_ it _._ ” Optimus made ready to close the door in front of him as he ducked out.

               The wrecker piped up, legs slack as he spread them just a bit wider. “You tellin’ me you don’t want to continue my punishment?” Optimus’ optics lidded halfway in jadedness. Even as the minorly beaten mech slid out his spike, hard and excited, from its housing, the Autobot leader stared only between the warrior’s eyes.

                Optimus cleared his throat, “I hope we never have to.” And he left.

                Wheeljack’s smug expression melted off to reveal annoyance. _Well played, boss_. The mech expelled a rush of heat from his vents. _Well played._

 


End file.
